


And Repeat

by Fanforthefics (StormDancer)



Series: Hockey Tumblr Oneshots [20]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-26 15:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16684447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/Fanforthefics
Summary: “Next year,” Nicke says. Ovi’s skin was warm under his lips.“Next year,” Ovi agrees.





	And Repeat

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: a kiss...as comfort
> 
> Don't know, don't own, etc.

Nicke finds Ovi in player’s lounge. He’s seen him for the past hour, talking to the media, to the other players–big and loud as has has been for the past months Nicke’s been on the team. Ovi is always so much, always so loud. In joy, and now, in frustration and something like grief. 

In the room, it had been loud–all his devastation, all of their devastation, to come close and then fail. Nicke feels it too, the full burden of it–how he was supposed to change things. How he was supposed to make them go far. And instead, they have this–Alexander Ovechkin, sitting in the players lounge, his shoulders curved inward and looking small. 

Nicke doesn’t like it. He knows that much. but he also doesn’t know what to do. Nicke’s not good at comfort–not good at emotions at all, really, but comfort least of all. And even if he was, he wouldn’t be able to say anything in English, much less the small subset of English he and Ovi both understand. 

But Nicke doesn’t like the way Ovi is sitting there, looking small. Alex is not meant to be small. Ovi is meant to be big, larger than life. Nicke doesn’t always like him like that, is sometimes irritated by it, because Nicke is not a big person, can’t grow to fit a room like Ovi can and wouldn’t want to, but it’s how things should be. And Nicke doesn’t believe in leaving things he doesn’t like unfixed. 

So he goes over. Sits down on the couch next to Ovi. 

Ovi looks up when he does. HIs eyes are shamelessly red-rimmed. Nicke looks at his face in something like confusion, something like amazement. He doesn’t understand what it would be, to feel like that, all over his face, where everyone could see. 

“Hi, Nicke,” Ovi says, his voice rough. Nicke nods. “Need something?” 

Nicke shrugs. “To play the last few hours again,” he suggests, and Ovi snorts, mirthless. 

“Yes. Me too,” he agrees. Then he sighs, and his head drops again. He looks defeated, here, away from the cameras. That’s even worse than him looking small. “I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry?” Nicke repeats. This is wrong-all-wrong. That’s almost–well, nothing’s as bad as dropping game seven, but this is close. 

Ovi looks up again, and his face is all rough angles and emotions that look horribly wrong. “I should get us to win. You come to win, and I… _fuck_ ,” he finishes, a word in English they both share.  

Nicke shakes his head. He doesn’t have the words, in Swedish or English, to say everything there is to say–that Alex carried them through the season. That Ovi made this rookie season almost a thing. That Ovi’s season was amazing, and game seven was game seven. That Nicke should be apologizing too, for not getting them there. That they’ll do it next year. 

He can’t say that. He’s not a person who could, even if he could put words to it. But he has to do  _something_. Something that will make Ovi know what he means. 

He leans in, and ignores Ovi’s confused face as he brushes his lips against Ovi’s forehead. “Next year,” he says. 

Ovi still looks confused, but he makes something that could be a smile. “Next year,” he agrees. He looks less small. Less wrong. 

Nicke nods, and gets up. It’s better, at least. He’s done what he can. 

* * *

Ovi stays quiet in the locker room. Nicke watches. It’s been a year, and he knows what Ovi looks like, when he’s simmering. 

But not here, he thinks. Not when they’re all shell-shocked. Nicke watches Ovi because watching him simmer is better than thinking of what just happened. Fucking round one. Fucking–everything. 

Nicke changes with quick, deliberate motions. It’s easier to pay attention to each thing he’s doing, than to the big picture. Like it’s easier to watch Ovi, watch him as he rips off his pads and shoves them into his locker. Then Nicke goes to the shower, and when he comes out, Ovi’s gone. 

Nicke should get dressed, go home, lick his wounds, and think about when he’s going to go home. 

Instead, he gets dressed, and goes to find Ovi. 

He’s not hard to find. Nicke knows Ovi, by now. He’s sitting in the lounge again, the lights off so he’s cast in shadows as he paces. 

Nicke stands in the doorway, watches. It’s cathartic, somehow. Watching Ovi pace. Watching him rage, like Nicke just–can’t. It’s not how he works. It’s in him, that anger, that frustration, but it’ll come out in bits and pieces in the next weeks, not with the explosive force of–

“Fuck!” Ovi yells, and it echoes in the room. 

“Agreed,” Nicke says, and Ovi spins. He doesn’t look ashamed of his outburst, but he does look at Nicke with something like wariness. 

“Not the time, Backy,” he warns, and doesn’t get closer. 

“Time for what?” Nicke asks. He comes into the room. If Ovi needs to rage, Nicke can be the person he rages to. He knows Ovi doesn’t mean it. 

Ovi shakes his head, huffs out a breath. “Going to–yell, and get angry. Don’t want to, at you.” 

Nicke raises his eyebrows. “Why not?” He deserves it as much as the rest of them. 

Ovi’s mouth opens, then closes, and he shakes his head again. “Is just–no.”

“Okay,” Nicke says. Now is not the time to wonder what goes on in Ovi’s head. That way lies madness. He doesn’t leave. Ovi looks at him like he expects him to, but Nicke–Ovi is still simmering, and Nicke just–he doesn’t like, it again. 

If he says something, the anger in Nicke must lash out. There’s nothing to say, anyway. He just–wants Ovi to know. That he gets it. That he’s there too. 

Ovi is very still as he walks over to him. Nicke goes up on his toes, kisses Ovi’s forehead. “Next year,” he says. 

Ovi snorts. “Next year,” he says, a promise or a curse. 

Nicke nods, and falls back down to his feet. Ovi is still looking at him, like he’s expecting more, but–Nicke’s done what he has in him. He doesn’t have more, he doesn’t think. 

“Don’t break anything,” he warns, and turns to go. Behind him, he thinks he hears Ovi laugh, rough and pained. 

* * *

Ovi is small again, when the media is gone. He’d been big until then, but now–Nicke had waited, little else to do, as everyone else got dressed and left. But Nicke–he doesn’t want Ovi to leave alone. Not this year. 

“Wait for me?” Ovi asks, when he sees him. 

Nicke shrugs. “Not looking forward to packing,” he says. “

“Could drink until you forget.”

“I could,” Nicke agrees. “Are you going to?” 

Ovi shrugs, a big, careless motion, and slumps back in his stall. He’s not a man made for slumping. Nicke hates it as viscerally now as he did two years ago. 

“Might as well,” Ovi says, glaring at the wall. “Nothing else to do. Can’t be captain any other way, might as well–” 

“Shut up,” Nicke cuts him off. Ovi shuts up, and looks at him again. It’s still that–he looks at Nicke like–Nicke can’t put it into words even in his own head, much less put into words what it makes him feel. 

But he knows this–Ovi is his captain. Ovi led them to the President’s Trophy. He can’t let Ovi think he’s any less than he is. 

Ovi’s sitting with his legs spread wide, like he always does; Nicke steps between his knees. Ovi blinks up at him, so many emotions, as always, on his face. 

Nicke leans down, and kisses his forehead. Ovi’s indrawn breath fills the room. 

“Next year,” Nicke says. They’ll do it for Ovi, next year–to prove that he’s their captain. 

Ovi’s lips twist, wry and harsh. “Next year,” he says. 

Then he lets his head fall back. “Now go home, Backy. Nothing for you to do here.” 

Nicke sits down in his stall. “I’ll wait,” he says instead. Ovi says something low and soft to himself in Russian, and gets up to finish getting ready. 

* * *

“Next year,” Nicke says. Ovi’s skin was warm under his lips.

“Next year,” Ovi agrees.

* * *

“Next year,” Nicke says. 

“Next year.” 

* * *

“Next year.” 

“Next year.”

* * *

“Next year.” 

“Next year.” 

* * *

“Next year.” 

“Next year.” 

* * *

“Don’t, Nicke,” Alex says. Nicke sits down on the bus seat next to him anyway. 

The rest of the bus is quiet, as the team licks their wounds. Nicke glares out the window a little bit. He wants out of Pittsburgh. It’s a terrible city. 

“Are you telling me to go away?” 

“Yes.” Nicke waits. Alex crosses his arms. “Go sit with one of your rookies,” he goes on. “Leave me alone.” 

“Why?” Nicke asks. Alex is many things, but he rarely likes to be left alone. Nicke’s usually the one who wants to be left alone, who has to tell Alex when it’s all getting too much and he needs to escape and Alex needs to cover for him. Not the other way around. 

“I can’t…” Alex shakes his head. “Fucking Pittsburgh.” 

“Fucking Pittsburgh,” Nicke agrees. It’s not an answer. “Do you want me to go?” he asks. He knows Alex. He knows the answer. 

Alex’s shoulders go down, just a bit. “No,” he admits. “Never want you to go, Backy.” He waggles his eyebrows. It’s weak, and Nicke rolls his eyes, and Alex leans back in his seat. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Nicke knows who wins silences, between them. Sure enough, 

“What if we don’t do it?” Alex asks the window. “What if we never get there?” 

Nicke has wondered that too. He doesn’t let himself often, but it’s something he knows might happen. Even the best team has bad luck. The hockey gods are fickle. Nicke thinks he would survive, retiring knowing he had played a good game, with no Cup. It wouldn’t be happy, but he would survive. Nicke would survive most things. 

Alex, he thinks, doesn’t think like that. Alex doesn’t think about survival like Nicke does. 

“We will,” Nicke says. 

Alex smiles, just a little–a odd sort of smile, almost sad. Not an Alex Ovechkin sort of smile. “You always say,” he says, and looks at Nicke, like he had almost ten years ago. 

“Because we will,” Nicke tells him. “You and me. Together.” He’s maybe not as sure of that as he wants to be. But he can say it like he believe it. If he makes Alex believe it, maybe it will be true. 

He leans over in the seat. Alex ducks his head a little, so Nicke can reach his forehead. 

Nicke keeps their faces close, just for a second. Alex’s eyes are closed, but Nicke keeps his open. “Next year,” he says, quiet, into the space between them. 

Alex’s eyes open, and that defeat has faded, if not disappeared. Instead, there’s just the way he looks at Nicke. “Next year,” he says. His hand twitches on his thigh, like he thinks about moving it but doesn’t. 

* * *

“Next year,” Nicke says. Next year they’ll at least get the fucking Pens. 

Alex looks at him from so close, like he knows what Nicke’s thinking. “Next year,” he agrees. His eyes are very blue, somehow. Their thighs are almost touching. Nicke’s face is red. 

Nicke steps back, before he can think about that. Alex watches him, his brows furrowed, more emotions than Nicke knows how to read on his face. 

* * *

The locker room is an explosion of beer and music and cheers and chaos, and Nicke feels it in him too, in every crevasse of him, like it’s almost too much. Like everything is too much, because they–because mere moments before he’d lifted the Cup, because Alex had grabbed him and handed him the Cup and they’d made their lap and the Cup is  _right there,_ now. Nicke could touch it, if he wanted to. 

Everyone is. It’s all–so much, and Nicke ducks away, just for a moment, into the hallway. He tilts his head back against the cool concrete. Breathes. Feels it in his veins. 

“Nicke!” Alex booms, and Nicke looks up. Alex is not quite drunk yet, but he’s not not drunk, and Nicke can see his joy radiating out of him, like it has since that goal went in. “Nicke, what you doing here? Beer is inside! Cup is inside!” 

Nicke smiles, despite himself. “Just taking a second,” he says. Alex nods, and strides over. 

“You always need second to figure how to feel good,” he says, shaking his head with a fond smile. “How to feel, at all.” 

Nicke shrugs. It’s not like he can deny it. “I’ll go back in a second. Once it sinks in.” 

“I help. Backy,” Alex says, grinning, and he’s so big, like he’s filling up the hall and the rink and the world. “We win.”

Nicke grins back. Feels Alex’s joy echo in him. “We did.” 

Alex is still looking at him, and he steps closer. “Still,” he says. “End of playoffs.” 

“I guess?” 

Alex rolls his eyes. “You know what you do, end of playoffs.” 

They don’t talk about it. They’ve never talked about it, their little ritual. It’s not a thing that needs to be talked about. Especially not after last year, and how it had felt–different. 

“Ovi–” 

“You do every year,” Alex says, and he steps close, huge and inexorable. “Can’t stop now.” 

“You don’t need it now.” 

“Nicke,” Alex groans, and as a practice Nicke doesn’t do anything Alex complains about, but right now–right now he thinks he would give anyone on his team the moon, if he could. 

“Okay,” he says, and takes a step closer, leans up–

And Alex lifts his head deliberately, so instead of catching his forehead Nicke gets his lips. 

Nicke’s breath freezes in him. Nicke’s everything freezes in him. But Alex–Alex’s hand is wraps around his neck, and he’s kissing him, keeping him close, and– 

“Nicke?” Alex asks, drawing back. Joy and fear and excitement war in his gaze. 

It looks right. It feels right. Nicke might not be good with feelings, but he knows when something’s slotting into place. When–of course, it’s Alex. Eleven years, a third of Nicke’s life, and of course it’s him. 

Nicke is full of that–of the certainty and the Cup inside the locker room and Alex right here with him, like always. So full, and he can’t–he doesn’t have words. 

He grabs Alex’s face, tilts it down so he can kiss his forehead, then up again, for his lips. 

When he pulls back from that, Alex is beaming, alight. It looks right.

“Next year,” Nicke says, a promise and an answer. 

Alex grins back, and Nicke knows he understands. “Next year.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Want to talk about it? Comment or come chat on tumblr at [ fanforthefics!](http://fanforthefics.tumblr.com/)


End file.
